


Red, White, and Bluebells

by RainSky



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Challenge Response, Classical Ballet - Freeform, Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, Divorce, Family, Friendship, Gen, Pressed flowers, Punishment, Sympathy, Tea, Teen Angst, The Bluebells of Scotland, White Collar Crime, Writers Anonymous Break the Cliché Challenge, bluebells, compassion - Freeform, extracurricular activities, flawed parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26352568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainSky/pseuds/RainSky
Summary: Winner - Writers Anonymous Break the Cliché Challenge - An American teenager transfers to Hogwarts... and struggles to cope with her parents' divorce and appreciate her mother's heritage. Elsewhere fic. One-shot, complete. Trigger Warning: Divorce, crime & punishment. Cross-post from FFN. Updated 9 September 2020 in response to concrit on FFN.Will be making additional edits this Christmas holiday.
Kudos: 2





	Red, White, and Bluebells

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cathrl](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cathrl).



> A/N: This was written for the Writers Anonymous Break the Cliché Challenge. I originally intended to write something completely different, but another user listed this as an example of a cliché, and all of a sudden I _had_ to write this.
> 
> cathrl: “American transfer student goes to Hogwarts and does something other than become best mates with one or more of the main canon characters.”
> 
> As such, this story is dedicated to cathrl.
> 
> I interpreted the cliché to be broken as three-fold: (1) don’t let the American be part of the Golden Trio, (2) don’t let the American have a romance with a canon character, and (3) don’t let the American be part of the main plot, which in HP5 means don’t let her have any role in opposing Umbridge or exposing Voldemort’s return. Rather than AU, this is more accurately an "elsewhere" fic.
> 
> Yes, I know “Madison” wasn’t a popular girl’s name until 1984, meaning the character should be at least four years younger than the Golden Trio. I justify it.

August 1995

The administrative bureaucrats of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry tried very hard to hold Madison Gagné back an academic year. Her birthday was in October, and the school traditionally cut it off on 1 September. If she were to transfer into the fifth year - as she had already finished the equivalent of the fourth year back home - she would be the youngest student in the entire academic year, they had argued. The move must be very stressful, why not take it easy for your first year in Britain?

Madison didn’t care how old her peers would be; nor did she want to take it easy. She was a stellar student who made Dean’s List almost every term and she wanted to _hurry up_ and _finish school_ so she could go home to California, where the weather wasn’t dreary, where the people didn’t speak with ten obnoxious accents - where her beloved Papa was. Oh, she loved her Maman deeply. But why did divorce mean she had to move halfway across the planet? Why did she have to pull Madison away from the only life she ever knew?

“I know it’ll be hard at first, honey, but you’ll make lots of friends soon.”

From the top of the social ladder to the very bottom. Adding to her misery was the fact her mother’s alma mater had neither a cheerleading squad nor a dance team. What the heck did Brits even do for fun?

September 1995

Unlike the earlier bureaucrats, the emerald-clad deputy headmistress seemed a reasonable if stern woman. She gave Madison a concise run-down of the “house system” used at Hogwarts, explaining the values preferred in each “house” though being careful to add that students of one house were not deficient in qualities valued in another; all the while, she never treated Madison like a toddler or an idiot.

To Madison’s relief, she would be Sorted in the privacy of the headmaster’s office instead of publicly alongside the fresh crop of eleven-year-olds, her height drastically marking her as “different” - an “other.”

“The Sorting Hat will take a quick peek into your mind and determine where you will fit in best.”

She felt a bit silly putting on an old hat that had touched Merlin-knows-how-many students’ scalps before her, but Professor McGonagall’s expression had been firm and reassuring. Given her preferred colour palette, Madison knew exactly which House to request.

  
  


Slytherin valued ambition and cunning, resourcefulness and achievement. It wasn’t a bad match at all, though Madison suspected any red-blooded American would be placed in this house by default. She was highly disappointed to be told her head of house would in fact _not_ be Professor McGonagall, and even more disappointed her common room would be underground - or rather, underwater.

Madison supposed the Slytherin common room, with its high ceilings and intricately-carved furnishings, had a haunting, gothic beauty to it. It _was_ rather cool that the tall windows looked into the loch. But she felt this concept was best left to, say, an exorbitant novelty resort, instead of as a daily residence for three-quarters of the year. Where was the sun? No wonder Brits were so pale.

“Hello. Can I help you?” The smiling blonde girl was unremarkable save for her black satin gloves.

Madison realised she must have looked every bit a deer-in-headlights. She swallowed her nerves and returned the smile, hoping to appear less pathetic. “Hello. I’m Madison Gagné. I’m going to be a fifth-year.”

“Astoria Greengrass. You’ll be in classes with my sister; she should be in her dorm. Would you like me to show you there?” The girl was no beauty, but she oozed old money and good breeding. Even wearing the same school uniform, she made Madison feel like a slob.

“Please.”

Astoria’s chestnut-haired sister (“Daphne”) was every bit as well-mannered and affable as she, and promised not to leave Madison’s side until she was comfortable, for which Madison was very grateful.

After exchanging pleasantries, Madison claimed to be worn out from her journey and begged to retire early, skipping the evening meal entirely. She had been at her mother’s ancestral estate, lorded over by the uncle who was her namesake, for weeks already, but it wasn’t a complete lie - she hadn’t felt alive since bidding farewell to the southern California sun.

That night, as she lay in her venerable four-poster bed that was probably older than her parents, Madison turned and caught sight of the tag on one of her trunks. “Smith, Madison,” it read, bearing her mother’s maiden name. If not for the cutesy California grizzly motif on the back, she would have thought her mother had used her uncle’s trunk tags.

_Great. Just another way Maman is erasing Papa from our lives._

The sound of the loch water masked her soft, stifled sobs.

  
  


At breakfast the next morning, Madison received the shock of her life - the Brits did _not_ take coffee with their morning meal. Or, at least, wizards didn’t. Madison could have sworn she had seen non-magical coffee shops.

The polite boy sitting next to Daphne seemed determined to prove the superiority of tea over Madison’s mysterious “coffee” drink. “Keemun carries notes of orchid. It’s really good paired with shortbread. But if you’re having Damask rose soufflé, then Nuwara Eliya tea from Sri Lanka is what you want. And _this_ is the _best_ \- it’s a Darjeeling that comes only from the Margaret’s Hope garden in India…”

“Draco, are you being paid to shill tea?” Daphne asked wryly.

He sputtered and the two old friends - second cousins, Madison would later learn - began a battle of wits, as Astoria rolled her eyes from where she was sitting with her classmates.

Madison requested a mug of spiced drinking chocolate.

  
  
At the end of her first month, Professor McGonagall summoned Madison to her office. Madison recognised copies of her old academic transcripts splayed on the desk.

“Miss Gagné-Smith, the other professors say you do not appear focused in class.” Direct but gentle, diplomatic. “Would you like your course load adjusted?”

Madison wasn’t sure if her head of house had noticed that she was more comfortable with the transfiguration professor, or if this was simply a part of her duties as deputy headmistress.

“I’m sorry, Professor. It still takes me a long time to parse the diverse accents into English I can understand.” Another half-truth. She certainly struggled to hear the words spoken by classmates from certain regions as even being the same language, but the professors were more or less intelligible.

“That’s fair.” Scotland had no shortage of thick accents.

Madison diverted her eyes from Professor McGonagall’s all-seeing blue gaze, knowing full well the keen witch did not buy her explanation at all.

Alone, Madison could throw herself into academics to take her mind off more painful things. In the classroom, her speech and her comportment alike gave her away as a foreigner, an outsider. She found it difficult not to fantasise about being back home, where she belonged.

“I promise, I will try harder.”

She felt guilty stonewalling Professor McGonagall, but her problems seemed so trivial. Plenty of people had divorced parents. At least they spoke English in Britain (except, apparently, in the Newcastle region). She didn’t understand the obsession with fried, battered white fish, good as it was, but at least there were fries. And, as much as she missed coffee, the smoky Lapsang Souchong tea _was_ growing on her.

She was on the cusp of fifteen; she could totally pull herself together. No need to break down and cry like a bratty child to her favourite professor.

But, perhaps, there _was_ one thing Professor McGonagall could help with.

“Professor, if I may ask, is there any place in the school with marley floors? And, perhaps, a good number of mirrors?”

October 1995

There was in fact a makeshift dance studio at Hogwarts. The last dancer to enter the school over a decade ago had converted an unused classroom into a viable studio space. Madison happily cleared the dust with a few swishes of her wand. This would be much more effective than trying to stretch against the wall of her corner of the dormitory all the time. Better yet, there was a window that let in sunshine - even if it _was_ usually filtered through grey clouds.

Her second month at Hogwarts found her mood much improved now that she was getting regular exercise. Madison no longer needed to stay up past midnight to use the vanity counters in the powder room as a barre. People seemed to find her more approachable now that she was able to get sufficient sleep and carry herself more energetically during the day. Daphne even remarked that she looked much lovelier with a sincere, non-controlled smile.

And when her birthday finally came around, the Greengrass sisters pulled her aside and presented her with her own tea set, decorated with a rose and maple leaf motif - Madison knew it must have been custom-painted to reflect her parentage.

"Welcome to Britain."

She smiled so broadly her face hurt.

  
November 1995

It was late autumn, and Madison had to admit the fiery-hued Scottish Highlands were beautiful, especially on days the sun deigned to shine. She especially loved the reflection of the hills dressed in their seasonal garb on the Black Lake; it looked like something out of a fairy tale.

“Come March, the highlands will be covered in bluebells,” Professor McGonagall had once told her before humming a folk melody with a proud, distant look to her eyes.

Madison couldn’t wait to see the school grounds in spring.

  
  


“Gagné!”

Madison glanced over her shoulder. Draco, flanked by his friends Crabbe and Goyle, as he always was. She excused herself from the conversation; she had already been third-wheeling Su Li and Sally-Anne Perks for five minutes as the complaints about the upcoming triple threat of an exam, practical lab, and seventy-five inch paper in Potions had quickly turned to gushing about a professional Seeker Madison was unfamiliar with.

She smiled. “Hi! How’s your paper coming alo - ”

“Never mind that! Are you headed to Ravenclaw Tower later?”

Madison blinked. “Uh, wasn’t planning on it. Why?”

“For the Castleton!”

She stared at him blankly, knowing she was missing something very obvious and about to be chewed out. His words sure sounded like English, but he may as well have spoken Gobbledegook for all the sense they made.

He brought a hand to his forehead and, with a slight eye-roll, impatiently explained, “The Patils’ cousin sent them a huge sampler of tea. We’re trying the Castleton - that’s a Darjeeling - at four. Everyone’s invited. Just… you’re a Slytherin, so please do try to cut your scones the right way this time.”

“I said I was sorry, Earl Grey!” The Brits were never going to let her live it down, it seemed.

Their Defence Against the Dark Arts professor was a right hag, banning this and that through educational decrees, including any form of student club or organisation early the previous month. Fortunately for most students’ social lives, Professor Umbridge hadn’t banned afternoon tea, as Madison noted local custom considered it a proper meal, and likely wouldn’t if her choice of office decor were any indication.

She would never admit it, but she was secretly glad Draco, Padma, and the others kept trying to include her, even as she exasperated them with her ignorance of tea culture.

December 1995

Draco slammed his copy of the _Daily Prophet_ down in front of her. “How dare you? _How dare you?_ ” He seethed.

She had never seen him so incensed. Out of the corner of her eye, Padma Patil stopped in her tracks, clutching a copy of the paper in her arms, inertia thrusting the hem of her robes forward - knowing she was too late. Aware of students from neighbouring tables craning their necks at the commotion, her eyes scanned the paper, folded to the ninth page, in confusion.

_**Gagné Convicted: Former Fairfax Executive Imprisoned for Embezzlement** _

Her vision involuntarily began to blur, and Madison hurried to skim the article.

_Pierre Gagné, 42, was convicted by a jury of seven wizards and five witches (MACUSA’s primitive version of the Wizengamot) of embezzlement Tuesday afternoon. The Québécois-American Gagné served as Senior Vice President of Finance for Fairfax America, the misleadingly named North American branch of Fairfax Group. During his tenure, he embezzled nearly two million Galleons from his employer..._

No. No, no, no, no, no, no, _no_. Madison’s father was kind and loving. Her Papa would never do this. He taught her to aim high and to work for it every step of the way. He didn’t belong in Alcatraz with killers and worse. How many Dragots was that anyway? No. It couldn’t be true.

“Draco, stop this! It’s not her _fault_.”

Madison glanced up just in time to see Astoria throw her own copy of the _Daily Prophet_ in Draco’s face.

“Yes, it _is_. We can’t trust a Yank who applies jam first, Devonshire cream on top, and once tried to cut her scone _vertically_.”

Without missing a beat, Astoria retorted, “Your father once stood accused of being a Death Eater.”

“Father was acquitted,” he snapped back.

“Maybe. But did _you_ have anything to do with it?”

The pale boy glared at Astoria and Madison in turn. Finally, he stormed off in a huff, his face blotchy from anger.

Quietly, Madison tried to find words. “Why is he…?”

Daphne pointed toward the end of the article. “His maternal great-grandfather founded Fairfax Group. He considers it a personal affront.”

Her downcast eyes followed the tip of Daphne’s finger. Sure enough, there was a statement by the current Chief Executive Officer of Fairfax Group, a woman identified as “Narcissa Black-Malfoy.”

Below the CEO’s statement, the article concluded, _Gagné has an ex-wife and school-age child. Neither answered requests for comment._

A lump formed in her throat. The headmaster must have been fending off the unsolicited owls.

Daphne laid a gentle, manicured hand on Madison’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll get over it soon.” She set a pretty, monogrammed, olive-green handkerchief in Madison’s lap and graciously left to give her space, taking the nearest Slytherin girls with her.

Padma neared, but politely kept a wide berth, her sister five steps behind; both girls giving Madison sympathetic expressions. "I'm sorry I was too slow." Then, the sisters, as different as their faces were identical, too were gone.

As she dabbed at her face, Madison felt another student approach. She didn’t particularly want anyone’s pity, or even attention, right now. Noticing the red and gold trim at the student’s wrist, she looked up - the spectacled boy with the scarred forehead who had once snubbed her.

“Malfoy’s always a foul git. It’s not personal.” He smiled, not unkindly, and then left to rejoin his friends.

She recalled the Draco who had enthusiastically tried to teach her about tea and could not reconcile him with the boy who’d spewed poison moments ago; just as she could not reconcile her good, hard-working father with the convicted felon in the paper. She supposed the boy (Henry?) had meant well, but his comment didn’t make her feel any better, either.

  
  


The return to her uncle’s estate for the Christmas holiday was devoid of words. It was plain her mother remained unready to deal with her daughter having learnt the truth behind the divorce. Her uncle, the original Madison Smith, was left to fill the silence with small talk at mealtimes.

“Good to see you’ve learnt the proper way to eat your scones,” the portly man smiled in approval at his niece’s drastically improved cream tea etiquette.

Images of a giggly Astoria, a grimacing Daphne, and an indignant Draco swam in Madison’s mind’s eye. She set her scone and knife down, apologised for her lack of appetite, and excused herself from the table.

  
  


During the break, Madison auditioned for the Wizarding Academy of Dramatic Arts. Four hawk-eyed jurors watched as she went through an entire barre sequence, centre, and then écarté exercises. She was a bundle of nerves as she performed the two prepared classical pieces and a single contemporary piece.

If she failed the audition, Madison’s only remaining option would be to attend Beauxbatons Academy of Magic instead. She wasn’t particularly opposed to living in France; the school was well-regarded and the Pyrénées would at least be sunny. But her Québécois French would once again mark her as an outsider, and she was loath to repeat her experience at Hogwarts.

January 1996

Madison began a new life in London. This time, she didn’t fight when her mother filled all her enrolment paperwork as “Smith, Madison” and introduced herself as such on her first day as a student of WADA.

There was no talking during lessons; her foreign accent was a non-issue. After months of only informal ballet conditioning, Madison found the first week rough as she reacclimated to the rigours of a formal ballet curriculum. Once she had proven herself competent, however, her classmates readily saw her as a dancer - perhaps as a future rival for principal roles, but not an outsider, not an American, not the daughter of a recently-convicted criminal.

Towards the end of the month, Madison received a parcel with a terse note attached.

_Dear Madison,  
I’m sorry I blamed you for what your father did. Mother agrees I was wrong. She doesn’t blame you at all.  
During the holidays, Mother had business in America, and she brought me along. Your country is impressive in spite of its young age. Please accept this as a token of contrition.  
Regards,  
Draco_

Madison curiously unwrapped the parcel to find a framed, moving oil painting of an American cityscape - specifically of the Manhattan skyline - with the initials “DM” in a corner.

She laughed. New York was on the complete opposite side of the country from California.

_Well, he tried. It’s the thought that counts._

After writing a thank-you letter, Madison enchanted the frame to hang on the wall beside the bed in her spartan dormitory, a colourful reprieve from the balletic world of white walls, grey floors, and black leotards.

April 1996

Today was the day; they were finally ready. Per her classmate Grace’s instructions, Madison’s pressed flowers were ready to be arranged and set into glass hanging frames. Grace had wisely advised her to time it so she could work on the project during the spring holiday.

One each for Daphne, Astoria, and Professor McGonagall; one for her Maman; and one for her Papa’s cell in Alcatraz. She hadn't decided what she would do for Padma and Parvati, but she knew for sure it would be different as could be.

Madison began to hum a Scottish folk tune, an inactive Golden Snitch below each foot as she dedicated herself to her art. Britain wasn’t so bad.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The Scottish folk song is _The Bluebells of Scotland_. Grace is a reference to Grace of Monaco, who both studied classical ballet seriously and created pressed flower artwork as a hobby. The Golden Snitches take the place of lacrosse balls, which are frequently used by dancers to roll out their feet. Draco’s statements on tea are an unabashed author tract.
> 
> The portrayals of Draco, Daphne, and Astoria are in line with how I wrote them in an old one-shot, _Storia_.
> 
> A/N: 2 Dec 2020 - This piece has been named the winner of the Writers Anonymous Break the Cliché Challenge!


End file.
